Wise Old Soul

Sometimes I think Demon Baby is an old soul in a fresh new Demon Baby body. These pictures confirm it to me. His eyes . . . I just don't think he's a kid.

Recipe for a Happy Child

Recipe for a Happy Child

One part acceptance
One part affection
One part belief in him
One part unconditional love DESPITE the worms as housepets, dogs fed Play-do, and the whole fascination with peeing on the lawn


Mix well. Pray. A lot. Bite tongue sometimes. Thank God. A lot. Admire him when sleeping to remind yourself that he can be still . . . sometimes (just not when you ask him to). Surround him with people who love him. Kiss boo-boos. Show him the world can be a better place if we each just try by bringing him to the food bank and dropping off groceries. Count to ten. A LOT. Try that praying thing some more. Appreciate him just the way he is.

Dear Erie

Long-time readers of this blog no doubt remember this:

http://demonbabyandme.blogspot.com/2009/03/dear-erie-insurance.html

(And be sure to read all the way down the comments to the insurer VP ACTUALLY replying.)

Which somehow got all the way to the hallowed upper offices of Erie, my wonderful insurer (have to admire a company with a sense of humor).

Which led to this:

http://www.erieinsurance.com/eriesense/issues/Summer2009/ImWithERIE_Orloff.aspx

Because I Really AM a Writer AND a Mom

The Demon Baby post is at my writing blog today. Because I am Demon Baby's mother, but I'm also a writer.

http://ericaorloff.blogspot.com/2009/06/top-ten-things-i-learned-about-being.html

He Writes His Own Material

Okay, so I know the kid is eccentric. I know he's witty. But for heaven's sake, the kid is only four! And now he's writing his own material. Hence . . . from the last twenty-four hours:

"I want a purse."

"Okay." We give him one of his sister's old purses. He tries it on for size. "What? Do you want to carry stuff in it?"

"Nope."

"What do you want it for?"

He turns, gives me a sardonic smile, and says, "'Cause now I'm a person." [purse-son]


*********

Company comes Friday night. He is forced to wear sweatpants (commando) and a shirt. Saturday morning, they leave. He stares out the window as their car pulls out of the driveway.

"Thank God they're gone. Time to get naked!"

**********

He has a top hat from a magic kit. He has taken to wearing it.

"Is that your magic hat?"

"Nope."

"Well, pretend magic hat."

"Nope. It's my electric hat."

"Why do you say that?"

He whips it off his head and shows me. In the secret compartment for hiding stuff (hence to do your magic), he has tucked the electric wires for a computer and a plug.

"I'm just electric!"

Old Mom

I am, give or take, about a decade and a half older than nearly all of Demon Baby's peers' moms. At a birthday party, like today, I sit with a smile plastered on my face, having nothing in common with women who still coo over every move their child makes and wax poetic over cute clothes and princess crap. I can't say that 19 years ago, when I had my first child, I was much different. Sure, I played Barbies with her, but most of the time I wanted to claw my eyes out as I dressed Ken and Barbie. I marveled over my daughter and spent most of my waking breaths with her . . . but I was different, I suppose. I was always this eccentric, outside-the-norm, writer-mom with a slightly hippie bent. I've only gotten worse in my old age, dragging my kids to protest rallies and the food bank, and lecturing them on making the world a better place.

When Demon Baby got a kazoo in his goody bag from said birthday party today, I rolled my eyes. Only a young mom not shuddering from kazoo blasts in her ear would give a Demon Baby such a thing. Young moms make homemade Play-do (I did that with Oldest, but not with any of the other three, and I sure as heck am not insane enough to give Demon Baby clay--Lord knows where it will end up . . . and assuredly it won't be pretty). Young moms have the energy to go to the park AND the pool AND make nutritional little sandwiches cut out to look like Mickey Mouse all in one day. I'm lucky if I can survive one of the above.

I'm an old mom. I color my hair every four weeks or so to hide the massive gray. My ass shows the effects of being a writer and sitting making up novels for a living for hours and hours each day. I drink coffee--and lots of it--to keep up with Demon Baby and I am DELIGHTED to the point of tears on the rare occasions he falls asleep early and I find him passed out on a carpet somewhere as it's about the only evening time I get with some quiet and what passes as peace around here, given I have three other kids. And did I mention how much LAUNDRY they all make?

I don't care if his outfits match. If he's wearing clothes, it can be striped pants and a plaid shirt for all I care--I know he's not going to keep it on long anyway. He goes EVERYWHERE commando. And I just don't care. I pick my battles.

All of which sounds terribly cynical. Heck . . . look at the name of this blog.

But it's not. I find moments of sheer joy so exhilarating I feel like my heart will burst out of my chest. When he is enthralled with a worm, or shrieking his delight over things as varied as a guitar solo by the Clash or a dead spider in the bathroom, he forces me into the moment with him, where the rest of the world falls away. He is like a lesson in Buddhism every single day. When he does this plethora of destruction on my house, my appliances, and even my lone pair of dress shoes, I am so uninterested in a perfect-from-the-outside life that I can marvel at his intelligence, his imagination, and his genius.

But most of all . . . he IS his emotions--whether shrieking in anger or laughing with delight or crying with frustration. He can curl in my lap and tell me I am beautiful. He can kiss me, but then wipe off my kiss when I return the favor. And I am aware--painfully so--that THIS is the stuff of life.

A friend of mine passed away this month. His memorial service is next Saturday. I have had four close friends struggle with breast cancer, two with lymphoma. I have buried people I love. I have watched my friends bury their parents. My own dad is now blind. I have struggled and suffered through one child's difficult adolescence and then watched her evolve into graceful adulthood. I have one in high school, and another in middle school. And Demon Baby. I am aware, in the way an old mom can only too poignantly be, that THIS is the stuff of dreams. These moments.

His childhood may not be marked by baby books, where each new tooth is dutifully recorded (gave that up by midway through toddlerhood of Child #2). I may not have quite as many pictures of him. I will most definitely NOT be baking cupcakes. But my life with him is marked by this outrageous desire to grab him fiercely and hold onto his wonderful Demon Baby stage for as long as it lasts, knowing that life can throw us a curveball at any minute. I;ve lived long enough to know that.

I don't care about the mud in my hair, on my pants, or, frankly, in my best shoes. I don't ask how it got there.

I just appreciate that he is who he is. And tired though I am, this is my chance to live, moment to moment, in the incredible life of an incredible child.

How to Fix a Demon Baby Boo-Boo

It may come as a shock to long-time readers of this blog that Demon Baby has not broken a bone yet. Nor required stitches. Frankly, I'm shocked as his older siblings--who were much more mellow children--have broken bones (one thumb, one arm), and needed stitches (forehead). This is further proof that he is a Demon Baby Superhero.

However, yesterday, he fell and had a blood mouth and five small cuts on his chin, shoulder, knee, hand, and chest. This is how you fix a Demon Baby boo-boo.

1. Tell Demon Baby you will put ice on his mouth while he shrieks thinking "all" his blood is coming out of him.

2. Open up an ENTIRE box of Band-Aids (reason will soon be apparent . . . keep reading).

3. Clean the VERY SMALL cuts on hand, knee, chest, chin, shoulder.

4. Put on Neosporin.

5. Place one Band-Aid on each cut.

6. "When will I be healed?" says Demon Baby.

7. "In a day."

8. "Do I heave to wear this Band-Aid?"

9."No."

10. Demon Baby removes five Band-Aids. When he see he STILL has a cut there, he cries and asks for new Band-Aids.

11. Open up five new Band-Aids.

12. Repeat steps 6 through 11 until entire box of Band-Aids is gone.